


Saints and Sinners

by GloriaMundi



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Community: kink_bingo, Historical, M/M, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There, Jack: ye be sainted," says Barbossa. "An' I'm thinking you'll need a bit o' damnation to balance it out."</p><p>There are some cons that just aren't feasible without a helping hand ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints and Sinners

**Author's Note:**

> **contains consensual violence**

"I shall need a hand," says Jack Sparrow pointedly. "As it were."

"Heresy," mutters Gibbs and turns away: "Foolish!" pronounces Anamaria, with a sneery smile: "I'll be more'n happy to 'blige thee, Jack," says Hector Barbossa.

Of course he does.

"Thing is," says Jack, turning on his heel and trusting Barbossa to follow faithfully (well, _follow_ ) to the _Pearl_ 's Great Cabin, "it's a bugger to get the second one in."

"Course it is," says Barbossa, as though fraudulent miracles are his daily bread. Jack wouldn't put anything past Hector Barbossa: still, he'd never suspected his first mate of such creativity.

Jack settles himself at the table and pours a precautionary bumper of rum. "I've assembled the necessities," he says: unnecessarily, as the table is strewn with 'em. A carpenter's awl that looks to've been scraped, polished, filed, smoothed and otherwise made as nearly clean as might be; a worryingly hefty mallet; a tatty scrap of leather on which Jack plans to chomp when the critical moment is upon him; a couple of bottles of strong liquor, for medicinal use; a snarl of linen strips, formerly Jack's second-best shirt, now repurposed as bandages. He has a feeling this is going to be a messy business.

"Very pragmatickal," Barbossa congratulates him, sitting down without invitation and helping himself (also uninvited) to some of the rum. Jack scowls: for one thing, the rum is reserved for the Patient; for another, he would really prefer the Surgeon to be, if not stone cold sober (an improbable state for any of the _Pearl_ 's crew, even this long at sea) then at least steady-handed.

Still, you take what you can. And right now, Barbossa is the only volunteer.

"I be reckoning it's your one best chance at sainthood, Jack Sparrow," says Barbossa with an ominously toothy smile, raising his mug in salute. "An' I won't say I'm averse to a spot of ... penetration."

Just for a moment Jack wonders if he has somehow ended up in one of those interminable French farces. He _thought_ he'd gone into, possibly excessive and certainly unsettling, detail about the matter at ... hand: but perhaps Barbossa's got the wrong end of the stick (a habit to which his first mate is unnaturally prone).

Jack sighs. "Stigmata," he instructs. "So the God-fearing folk of Santiago de Cuba will flock to witness the miracle (admission a trifling peso or two) and with any luck His Eminence Fernando de Carvajal y Ribera will drop by with his high-toned but ineffectual entourage and his latest lovely levies. For the attraction of which you're to make me into a stigmatic. Not a sodomite. Not --"

"Can't be _making_ ye what ye be by nature," mutters Barbossa.

"-- a catamite," pronounces Jack.

"Never say never, Jack. 'Twouldn't be the first time."

"Business before pleasure," says Jack with a bright false smile, trying not to think of the aforementioned first time (or the second, or the third, or the others). "You up for it?"

"Your hand," growls Barbossa, slamming down his mug and reaching for Jack. And it's happening _now_ , which means Jack no longer has the opportunity to talk himself out of this dangerous, painful and frankly fucking stupid idea.

Before he knows it Barbossa's meaty paw is pressing Jack's wrist to the table. Jack struggles, more out of principle than because it actually hurts yet, and is not surprised to find that he's very capably pinned. (Which brings other occasions to mind, and chances are he could do worse than distract himself with a bit of pleasurable reminiscence.)

Barbossa thrusts the awl -- sharp(ish) and shiny(ish) and a hell of a lot broader than it looked when he was flaking the rust off it earlier -- into Jack's free hand. "Best you line it up," he explains. "I'll be needin' to pound it in."

Jack's mouth twitches in the pitying sneer that this unsubtle innuendo deserves. Later, he will rationalise this unwise expression as evidence of his courage and bravado in the face of imminent pain. Right now, as Barbossa's filthy fingers grind his wristbones savagely together, he spares a second to appreciate the foolishness of vexing the man who's about to hammer a spike through the vexing man's hand.

His mouth is dry. He lines up the awl, nestling the scratchy point between lifeline and heartline, trying to remember just how many bones there are in the human hand, and subsequently trying to forget this highly pertinent but frightfully alarming datum.

Barbossa, true to form, doesn't ask if he's ready or not. The mallet's in his hand; his hand goes back; his hand comes down, and for a briefly beautiful moment Jack thinks that he _missed_.

"C'n you feel it in you, Jack?"

"Fuck," confirms Jack Sparrow, whose whole hand is pinned to the oaken board by a veritable _javelin_ of ironwork, whose hand-bones are grating against metal, whose entire body is awash with whatever it is that makes a man fight or fly or fuck, whose vision is fireworked with bright and fiery flashes. " _Fuck_."

"Later, Jack. Later. Later I'll have ye out o' those filthy rags," and _Christ_ the awl hurts worse coming out than going in, with Barbossa pushing against Jack's hand to free the thing, "an' I'll put ye to bed in your own little bunk," mummifying Jack's stigmatised hand in a flurry of bandaging, "an' mebbe, if you're 'specially nice, I'll come in 'side thee -- there, that's it, give it here."

Jack, head reeling with pain and rum and inappropriately lewd notions, numbly raises his other hand to receive its own stigmatum.

Jack Sparrow has more than a nodding acquaintance with various flavours of Church: it's what qualifies him for this daring, creative and ridiculously painful bit of deception, which will enable him to reap the benefits of sanctity, beatitude et cetera without actually having to be _good_. (Also, if his ruse works, he'll be owed a considerable sum of monies from the doubting Thomases -- Hectors, Anamarias, Gibbses -- who like to call themselves his crew.) But he's beginning to realise that he has overlooked some aspects of the procedure. Primus: it really fucking hurts. Secundus: he doesn't recall, in his cursory perusal of holy scripture, any mention of carnal arousal.

"S'pose saints don't confess to it," he mumbles around the chewed leather in his mouth.

"What be you confessin' to?" enquires Barbossa, steadying the awl against Jack's yet-uninjured palm and peering at Jack's face with keen and avid interest.

"'S making me ... making me ..." Jack's words have all deserted him, possibly scoured from his mind by the bright vivid pain that used to be his left hand; possibly pulsing redly into the bandages; possibly all rushing south to where he's hardening, throbbing, wanting. Ridiculous. Nothing to do with the way Barbossa's leaning over him, hot and hungry and very very present, murmuring farcically filthy flatteries as he arranges Jack just so, his broad hand pressing the awl into Jack's hand and pressing Jack's hand into the scarred and graffiti'd table.

"Brace yourself, Jack."

"'S what you always say," responds Jack, and if anyone'd told him he'd be _giggling_ he'd've knocked 'em down. He should be screaming, sobbing, begging (Hector likes it when he begs) but he's laughing, light-headed, lickerish with lust. And

                    fuck

                        it

                               **hurts**

when Barbossa mallets the awl and the metal pierces and penetrates and pins him again. He feels helpless and pliant. He feels like giving it up for Barbossa. Every inch of his skin is preternaturally sensitive, humming like the mainstay in a high wind.   
Jack moans and groans and can't stop staring as Barbossa draws the bloody thing back out of his flesh. He almost wants it in him again; wants to feel the wet give of his flesh around it.

"There, Jack: ye be sainted," says Barbossa. "An' I'm thinking you'll need a bit o' damnation to balance it out."

Jack lets himself be hauled to his feet, hangs limply from Barbossa's hands like crucifixion. The pain in his hands is unreal, all-encompassing, too much to think about. Instead he thinks about the way Barbossa's looking at him, the way Barbossa's shoving him towards the bunk, the way he falls without his hands to catch him.

Barbossa is peeling away Jack's clothes, layer by layer, til the only parts of him covered are his bandaged hands, and all the rest is bare of everything save ink and scars and blood. Barbossa is reaching down under the bunk to where Jack keeps the pottle of oil for such occasions. Handy how he knows where it is, thinks Jack, and wants to giggle again.

Barbossa has stopped touching him, and Jack would complain but he hasn't the strength. He can do nothing but lie there, arms outstretched to get the pain as far away from himself as possible, watching as Barbossa strips off his own gear with little more respect or care than he'd shown for Jack's shirt and trowsers. Heavy corded muscle, sunburnt skin, the usual array of scars and pocks and scorches: Jack has seen it all before, but now the scars are teasing him, making him think of how it'd be to return the favour, slide metal into Barbossa's flesh, penetrate him. An act which Jack has suggested before, albeit with more traditionally physiological equipage: Barbossa was not amenable. Now he wants to do it, to fuck Barbossa the way that _o Christ_ Barbossa is setting up to fuck him, broad fingers red with Jack's own blood and slippery with scented oil from the pot (Jack can't help it if that bout of pickpocketing acquired him a sample of hair pomade) pushing into him just the way the awl did, opening him up, stretching and pushing and oh just there, just there ...

He is distantly aware that he is babbling and begging, desperate for it, too keen to care whether he's wholly ready. It hurts when Barbossa penetrates him, but it's a raw good hurt.

His hands are very far away. He can't hold, can't urge, can't haul: all he can do is lie there, sanctified and sodomised, and let Barbossa take him, take his pleasure, give it back. His vision is filling up with light, or possibly with an infernal dark glow. His veins are hectic with sensation. He can feel the blood oozing over his palms: he can feel the sweat starting on his lip, his brow, his belly. But most of all he can feel Barbossa, heavy and hot (though oddly cool where his prick pierces Jack), tempering him from prospective saint to burning sinner.

When he spends -- Barbossa's hand as rough on his prick as it'd been on his palm -- the pain ripples away into the corners of the cabin. When Barbossa spends, the silence floods in.

"Trust you're feeling sufficiently ... martyred, Jack," murmurs Barbossa, right up against his ear. His breath is rank and hot. Jack, returning with considerable reluctance to the sensations rioting through his pierced and exsanguinating corpus, wonders if he has just disqualified himself from any pretence at beatitude.

Not that the devout (and credulous) folk of Santiago de Cuba will see the smear of Barbossa's touch, the treachery of his kiss, the unction of his seed, the ...

Delirium is an old friend of Jack's, but he has seldom welcomed it more gladly. 'Sides, it might be mistook for religious ecstasy.

"Knew I could count on you," he slurs, "to make me good."

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to **p0wdermonkey** for beta!


End file.
